You Heard It Here First

It's that time of the year again, where miscreants come from all over Britain to stand in front of Simon Cowell and be told 'you're a talentless idiot, but we're going to let you humiliate yourself in the name of ratings and a nice sponsorship deal with Dominoes Pizza.'

Yes Britain's Got Talent is back on the box. Its ITV's way of making people feel just that little bit better about themselves, by throwing goblins and all sorts of other creatures on stage while Ant & Dec prance around backstage like hyperactive children after a bag of Tangfastics. It's such shite telly. It's as predictable and clichéd as a romcom and in the end, no ones a winner, because all their money goes towards Amanda Holden's new nose (I swear she's got so many they must be interchangeable).

But not so fast. And the end of this gloriously shallow and hate-filled tunnel, there is a light at the end. Granted, it's just light coming through some cracks in the ceiling of the tunnel, but it's light nevertheless. I hate the fact the winners of this damn show have been singer, dancer, dance troupe. Piers Morgan constantly witters on about finding 'variety', and yet all the good acts never make it. In the first series, my favourite act was this guy. When he petered out in the semi-finals, I was devastated.

I love how everyone always says 'it's always been my dream to perform at the Royal Variety, since I was a kid...' I don't know about you, but I'd never heard of this magical show till I was about 13. What 6 year old didn't want to be a Power Ranger, and instead, wanted to run around on stage in front of Queen Lizzy? Exactly, no one.

Now I'll be honest, I've hardly watched the damn programme this year. I know shock horror, send me to the gallows. But, I did have a little gander last Saturday, and I'm sorry, but if this act doesn't make it to the final, I'll have lost all faith in humanity.

Fatherhood & Pitchforks

I returned home on Saturday afternoon hoping for a nice relaxing two weeks of the Lord's finest 'sweet f.a.' Not much to ask seeing as how I haven't really had a break since Christmas; I'm starting to think this 'work' lark is getting too much for my lil' head to deal with.

Now I know what you're thinking, the word 'hoping' clearly signifies that Daniel's two weeks will NOT be relaxing. And you'd be one hundred percent correct. I returned home to find my Dad had become the middle-class freedom fighter equivalent of Joanna Lumley.

Quite a lot gets my Dad riled. Being bought up in the East End of London for starters can't have inspired much faith in humanity. I've lost count how many times he's told me about how he used to be 'the angel child' while his younger sister skipped school and his younger brother held lifelong ambitions to be 'a dustman, because you don't start work till the afternoon'.

He also has the most pessimistic job in the world. A risk assessor for an insurance firm. To you and me, all he does all day is sit and think 'what could go wrong'. And when you work for an insurance company that deals in everything from the British Airways fleet to mineshafts in America, that's a lot stuff to 'go wrong'.

It's not so much a 'glass half empty' philosophy that my Dad holds, more like a glass shattered into a million pieces with the contents all over the coffee table.

So, you can imagine he wasn't best pleased when the council (Rochford Council in Essex for all you aliens) decided to submit plans to build about 100 cheap houses in the lovely green belt land opposite our house. Our house which my Dad has spent about a year decorating and getting it to his worryingly high standards after we bought it. And the one condition we bought the house on? That no development would ever take place on that land...

In some ways it's a kind of laughable series of events, but then again it's also quite worrying. These plans are the first steps in an absolutely massive property development scheme to take place over the next 10/15 years in Rochford and Ashingdon. The likelihood is much of the green space that my Dad loves (and hence why we bought a house here) is going to be filled with shite low-rent housing. Essentially, it'll be like having legal travellers.

So. What does this have to do with my 2 week break? Well, my Dad (after owning a councillor at a recent planning meeting) has been 'elected' by the residents on my road (possibly the most casual elections ever) to lead this campaign against the council. Brilliant, now I have Nelson Mandela for a father, leading some middle class 'rebels' against the council to keep them from building on areas where pheasants congregate.

This morning then, I've had to deliver lots of lovely leaflets through people's letterboxes (because people are so happy to see strangers knocking at their door asking for support at the moment) and it reminded me why I never wanted to be a paperboy. People can't buy normal letterboxes anymore, where it's one flap and you just whack the paper in and walk off. Nope, people seem to be buying the shark equivalent of letterboxes. I had more scratches and cuts on my hand than a reclusive teenager. And then the dogs. One letterbox was on the floor practically, so their sorry excuse for a dog (it was basically a fluffy rat) could have a go at postman. Honestly, buy a real pet and use the shitty little dog as a toy or a doorstop.

No pitchforks, no burning torches, no effigies on fire. Just some middle class residents expressing their anger through leaflets and expressing displeasure across the trellised fences. But my god I hope the campaign works. The last thing I need when I come home from Medway in Kent is to find more kids attired in stuff from JD Sports' bargain bin on my driveway...

Braindead *Insert Witty Title Here*

Guess who's back with a brand new rap?

Well, not really new. But just back, after what can only be described as the busiest most hectic few weeks of my life. Uni work, uni work, uni work, work experience, social life. I've been busier than a man using Photoshop charged with making the new Tory campaign posters look pretty.

So yeah work experience. I've been at the Kent Messenger newspaper for a week now and it has absolutely flown by. Took me a few days to get the hang of things (picking up the phone for the first time saying 'Kent Messenger, good morning' was a terrifying and surreal experience) and it doesn't help I've been spoilt by Uni. Nice new computers, decent camera equipment, reasonable deadlines...I'm not going to complain ever again. For a newspaper that covers the whole of Kent, I was a little surprised to find only 4 reporters, 2 news editors and an editor. The amount of work these people is unreasonable to say the least. I've gone through more press releases than a shredder, trying to get 200 words into 20. It's been chaos.

But fun. Very good fun. Day one was spent at an old people's home, where the smell followed me all day. We were doing a voxpop on the election, finding out which political party had amassed the 'grey vote' as the sub editors politely put in the headline. I was at my happiest when a dotty old lady told me 'the first person to kick out all the immigrants, I'll vote for'. It was like looking at a more cenial, older and feminine version of myself.

Tuesday was rather boring. Found out about a 16-year old yoof from Maidstone who'd uploaded a video showing how to kick a football which had attracted 1,000's of views (the internet is FULL of any old shit that people will watch). I think it's the first time a story has appeared in a Kent newspaper about a 16-year old that hasn't mentioned the words: 'sambuca', 'fire', 'rape' or 'Walther PPK', so it's a nice little bit of publicity for all.

Spent Wednesday morning at a sleepy little village just outside Maidstone. Gordon Brown was there the week before, Liam Fox (Shadow Defence Secretary) was there Tuesday to announce to Tory manifesto, and then lil' ol' me showed up the day after. I'd hoped to strut around the pubs, saying 'Daniel May, Kent Messenger' and return to the office with a notebook full of quotes and stun the editors with an article (the word 'twat' comes to mind...). Unfortunately, nobody told me they were shooting a sequel to '28 Days Later' in Aylesford (the little village). Because that's what it was. Empty. As fuck. No matter, got some quotes. Then in the afternoon, Maidstone had a powercut. So I ran around the town centre finding out what had happened (the response 'the lights have gone out' made my day) and managed to get a story on the website. Things were going well.

Thursday was a little more subdued. I logged onto Facebook for the first time that week in the office. Just to check I hadn't missed anything. In the afternoon I went to a fashion show (I know, 'bout time my area of expertise was recognised). It was once again full of old girls (I swear they're following me) and most of the models were shop employees (i.e. more old women). But it was great fun. I got free flapjack so I wasn't complaining.

So yeah, there's a little chronological report into my week. Hopefully next week I'll get to go to a car crash or house fire or something. I won't leave the office until I've had to give an eyewitness testimony to the police.

Leader's debate yesterday. I shuffled my rear into the perfectly formed ass-groove on my chair and stuffed my face with chicken as the leaders had a good ol' fashioned scuffle. Clegg did very well, but then no one's really paid much attention to him before. It's like a novelty at the moment. He out-Cameroned Cameron, in the sense he was big, confident and very well spoken. Gordon Brown just looked a creature from the cantina scene in Star Wars. His attempts at jokes were dire, the man has about as much comic timing as roadkill.It'll be interesting to see how Clegg stands up in the debate over foreign policy, seeing as his credentials in this area are way behind those possessed by Cameron and Brown. For these two, last night was a warmup. Get through debate numero uno without any hiccups and get a feel for how it's going to go down. It'll be an interesting few weeks.

And finally, quick update on my Créme Egg count. I started with 138, I've had a bloody good munch on them. I'll count them later. Don't expect there to be more than 60 left.